


halloween at the haus

by benvolio



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Halloween, Mutual Pining, That's really it, bitty wears a dress and jack has a heart attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 06:50:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7674298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benvolio/pseuds/benvolio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>YOU'RE INVITED!</p><p>The Samwell Men's Hockey Team cordially invites you to get super wasted!<br/>WHAT: Not quite an epikegster, but definitely a rager<br/>WHEN: 10:00, Halloween 2k14<br/>WHERE: The Hockey Haus</p><p>ALL LAX BROS REQUIRE ONE FEMALE COMPANION FOR ENTRY</p>
            </blockquote>





	halloween at the haus

**Author's Note:**

> Halloween 2014! That was the year Bitty dressed up as Mrs. Lovett. Y'know, for context and all. Also, I know the costume I mention for Shitty was actually his 2013 costume, but I kept laughing at the thought and I couldn't help but write it. Forgive me.

On October 30th, Shitty bursts into Jack’s room with not a stitch of clothing on, holding a giant ball of styrofoam. “Bro, you’ve got to help me.”

 

Jack looks up from his screen, pausing what he was watching ( _How It’s Made_ ― there’s something about them that he always finds oddly soothing). He pulls off his headphones slowly, making sure Shitty knows that he’s less than eager to help with whatever shenanigans are about to be requested of him. That’s what always happens when Shitty bursts into rooms, and with Ransom and Holster already decorating for _tomorrow night’s_ party (and the Haus ghosts supposedly leaving crude messages in toothpaste), there’s already plenty of shenanigans going around. Hence, _How It’s Made._

 

“What is it, Shits?”

 

Out of nowhere ― seriously, Jack doesn’t see pockets on Shitty, and where could he be hiding anything? ― Shitty produces three different types of glue. One of them appears to have a bright green warning sticker deeming it unsafe for human consumption. Jack’s immediately wary.

 

Shitty takes this as an invitation to approach and sets the ball down on Jack’s bed. “I’m going to go as Miley Cyrus for Halloween tomorrow night, so I’m gonna wear this wrecking ball ― get it? No, of course you don’t ―and basically glue it to my dong. Or, at least, the surrounding area.”

 

Jack blinks. “Um.”

 

“But I don’t know if any of these are totally safe for _that area,_ so I need to test them out on the inside of your arm. If any of them start to give you trouble, let me know. They’re all water soluble, so don’t worry about them staying on forever.”

 

He knows this is Shitty’s way of asking his permission, but he also knows he doesn’t have much of a choice. Besides, it’s not like he was doing anything else for the rest of the day. “Shouldn’t you test this on Bitty? He has the most sensitive skin out of all of us. Or Lardo.”

 

“See, I would, but Bitty’s in his room and taped a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door after announcing that he was going to work on his _own_ costume and if anyone interrupted, they’d be-” Shitty cuts himself off and snaps his fingers like Jack’s said something brilliant, which he definitely did not do. “Lardo! You’re right. I bet she already knows which of these are safe. Or has a friend who does.” And with that, he spins on his heel and leaves the room, presumably to find Lardo.

 

Jack puts his headphones back on, so he doesn’t hear Shitty backtrack until he’s at Jack’s door again, hand on the doorway. He pauses the show again.

 

“Hey, Jack, I haven’t heard you mention your costume yet.” It’s a casual comment, meant to sound flippant, but Jack knows better. Shitty’s been trying to get him to join in the Halloween festivities for years, though his methods changed once Jack explained why he was never in the mood. Last year, he’d come down and talked to a few people before retreating upstairs once things got rowdy, so at least there was _that._

 

“I don’t know…” he starts, but Shitty cuts him off.

 

“Dude. It’s your senior year. You don’t have to stay long, but at least dress up.” His normal brash tone has softened, and Jack really can’t say no to puppy dog eyes. “I don’t want you to regret not doing classic college things once you don’t have the opportunities anymore.”

 

Jack sighs heavily. “Alright,” he says. He’s pretending to act resigned, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll wear a costume if you provide one. But nothing elaborate. If you can make something out of what I already own, I’ll consider wearing it.”

 

Shitty punches the air in victory and returns to his task of finding Lardo. As he descends the steps, he yells, “You won’t regret this, Jack Zimmermann!”

 

Jack just smiles and puts his headphones back on.

 

•••

 

When Jack walks downstairs the next morning, the Haus is almost completely decorated. “All this place needs now is people to fill it,” Holster says through a mouthful of frozen French toast sticks ― his go-to when Bitty doesn’t make breakfast and there aren’t any leftovers from the beginning of the week (and by Friday, there never were). Jack also knows for a fact that Holster’s quoting his old high school show director. It had been a quiet moment, just Holster and Jack and Ransom and Shitty on the roof, when he’d told them the best part of high school drama was the end of tech week. The director would turn to them and say the only missing ingredient from their performance was an audience. Jack wouldn’t get to be a part of quiet, revealing moments like that once he graduated, not in the same way.

 

Shitty’s right. Jack doesn’t want to miss out on Halloween, not when it’s his last chance to experience it.

 

He’s about to head out when Bitty finally comes downstairs, hair sticking up everywhere and eyes still bleary. That boy needed more sleep than anyone Jack knew, and he found it oddly endearing. Except when Bitty was too tired and started chirping anyone and anything ― he could get downright nasty at oh-four-hundred hours. Jack would know.

 

Jack supposes he can spare a few extra moments to say good morning. It’s what a good captain would do. “Hey, Bits, how’s the costume coming along? Still working on it at one in the morning, eh?”

 

Bitty shoots him a sideways glance. “You heard me last night? I thought you were asleep by ten.” He doesn’t seem to wait for an answer before grabbing one of Holster’s French toast sticks (it’s Holster, so he _can,_ but Shitty would’ve chewed him out for taking food without asking) and continuing on. “It’s okay. It could be better. I’ve had it planned out for, gosh, _ages,_ and I just hope I can do the idea in my head justice, you know?”

 

And Jack does know, sort of, even if he’s never been in the exact same position as Bitty.

 

“Yeah, well, no one takes Halloween more seriously than you―” Holster gasps, but Jack ignores him, “―so I’m sure it’ll blow us all away no matter what.”

 

Bitty beams at him, and something inside Jack’s chest swells with happiness. He takes great care to not let that part of him get too carried away, so with nothing more than a quick smile and a wave, he heads off to class.

 

•••

 

Shitty seems to have a habit of bursting into a room, destroying its atmosphere, and replacing all topics of conversation with himself. At least, he has that habit when emergencies are taking place, and anything related to Halloween is _always_ an emergency.

 

Which is how Jack knows Shitty has entered the library before he ever actually sees Shitty. There’s a bit of a commotion by the entrance: a small flurry of movement, some nervous laughter, and Jack _knows_.

 

Shitty immediately seeks out Jack’s table, which he tends to occupy by himself with the occasional inhabitant on the exact opposite end of it (today, that inhabitant was a girl with tortoise-shell glasses who kept glancing over for some weird reason). He sits down right across from Jack, practically straddling the chair, and waits until he has the captain’s full attention ― eye contact and all ― before whipping out a singular object and placing it on the table between them.

 

It takes Jack a moment to realize what it is.

 

“Whoa, dude, that was the most dramatic change of expression I have ever seen,” Shitty laughs. “I didn’t think you could do that. You looked like Bitty when he realized you were serious about not knowing any music by Destiny’s Child.”

 

Jack can’t even dignify that with a proper response. He’s too horrified by what’s on the table. “No. Absolutely not.”

 

“Come on, it’s Halloween! And I know you have the clothes for it. I looked through your closet. Outfit’s on your bed. All you have to do is change into it and go to the party.”

 

“Shits, _no._ ” He doesn’t know how to be more adamant about this. “I’m not going to go to my final Halloween party as some… sex kitten?”

 

Tortoise-shell glasses girl seems to perk up a little. Jack makes a mental note to keep his voice low when discussing sensitive topics.

 

Shitty sits back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “I’m offended, Jack Zimmermann.”

 

Jack doesn’t know how to respond, so he says nothing.

 

“I’m offended that you don’t think I don’t know you. You really think I’d send you out there as a sex kitten? No, no, my man, you are a full-on black cat.” Shitty seems to expect some sort of good reaction to this, and Jack is not going to give it to him. “Look, it’s the easiest thing Lardo and I could come up with. You’ve got the black hair and the blue kitten eyes, and I know you have an all-black ensemble. It’s quick, it’s easy, and Lardo’ll draw on whiskers with her eyeliner.”

 

Jack still doesn’t agree, but he isn’t saying no, either.

 

Shitty sighs. “If you really hate it, you can take off the ears after half an hour and eyeliner isn’t a Sharpie. It’ll come off in a bathroom in under five minutes.”

 

Jack allows a long moment of silence to hang between them. “Okay, deal.”

 

“Yes!” Shitty’s punching the air again. He stands up to leave, and as he does, he lovingly jams the headband onto Jack’s head, smushing one of his ears painfully.

 

Jack pulls it off immediately and waves it at Shitty. “I want it on record that I won’t agree to be a sex kitten for anyone else, or at any other party.”

 

“Oh, baby, you always know how to make a boy feel special,” Shitty calls out overdramatically, grabbing at his heart like Jack’s just told him he’s secretly loved Shitty since day one and didn’t want to be with anyone else.

 

Jack rolls his eyes and shoves the ears in his bag. He’ll deal with them later.

 

•••

 

“Lardo, are you sure―”

 

“Shh, Shits. I’m trying to work.”

 

Jack says nothing. He’s kneeling on the bathroom floor in front of Lardo, wearing nothing but a pair of skintight black pants (Shitty swears he found them in Jack’s closet, but Jack isn’t convinced). There was a matching belt with a tail attached, but Lardo had managed to talk Shitty out of making Jack wear it. Shitty still seemed disappointed.

 

Jack’s eyes are closed as Lardo carefully draws lines across his face with a thin liquid eyeliner pen. She’s already told him she’ll have to go over it a few times for the proper thickness, and he decides it's time to get comfortable on his knees (oof, _there’s_ a thought he didn't think he’d be having today).

 

Lardo turns to the sink to wash the excess eyeliner off her hands and makes a clucking noise at Shitty. “Ugh, Jack, hang on, Shitty’s incapable of functioning right now. God, I really didn't want to be the one applying glue to your dick, but clearly you can't do it yourself…”

 

Jack’s back is to the door, but he hears a soft sound and twists his torso, trying to see who's there. It’s Bitty, who happens to be wearing a… petticoat? Is that the word? Crinoline? It doesn’t matter. He _also_ happens to not be looking anywhere near the mess that was Lardo slathering glue near Shitty’s nether-regions. Jack doesn’t miss the flick of Bitty’s eyes away from where Jack’s ass sits in unbelievably tight pants.

 

“Hi,” he says.

 

“Um.” For once in his life, Eric Bittle seems incapable of speech. “Wow, Jack, that’s- you’re dressing up- you look- I mean- um. I’ll… see you at the party, okay? I’m not fully dressed yet, don’t want to spoil the surprise. Pretend you didn’t see me, mmkay?” He gives a wink before disappearing, and just like that, Jack’s not even sure that he heard Bitty stutter in the first place.

 

It’s always so hard to tell whether or not he has any sort of effect on Bitty.

 

•••

 

Jack doesn’t see Bitty until much, much later that night. Actually, he sees Bitty pretty early on, but he doesn’t realize it.

 

A lot of his night is spent talking to Camilla and her friends, mingling with people whose names he probably won’t be able to remember, and watching Lardo beat people at flip cup (she teamed up with Camilla for a round of pong, and the two were a force to be reckoned with. It was actually both very impressive and a little bit hot).

 

But the cat ears are starting to pinch his head, so Jack works his way back to the steps with the intention of discarding them in his room. He’s halfway there when he bumps into a curly-haired brunette who is clearly in a hurry.

 

“Oh, sorry, Ma’am-” he starts, at the exact same time that the other person says, “Sorry! Goodness, I oughta watch where I’m going.”

 

Jack freezes. He knows that accent. It’s a higher pitch than usual, but the person is now looking up at him, and they certainly look _different_ from the person he knows, but he’d recognize those brown eyes anywhere.

 

“Bitty?”

 

His tone is absolutely incredulous and probably comes off as slightly disgusted, which is entirely unintentional. The more accurate description of what Jack’s experiencing would be “awe,” because the Bitty in front of him is no longer his favorite left wing. No, this Bitty is a charming Southern Belle. His eyelashes are long and dark, and Jack never noticed that Bitty has long eyelashes before. Probably the blonde coloring. And his cheeks are… glittering? They are definitely glittering. And… is that lipstick? Lip gloss? Shit, Bitty really committed.

 

Jack glances down at Bitty’s dress (an honest-to-god dress, it’s like he’s _trying_ to kill Jack) and the tights underneath, and he wonders if Bitty really commits all the way, and if so… Jack swallows hard and erases that thought under his Adam’s apple. He has no right to be thinking that way. Not in public, at least.

 

“Jack!” And, wow, okay, Bitty’s whole face just lit up like a kid on Christmas. “Oh, aren’t you adorable! Those ears!” Bitty reaches out to touch one, and then his hand sort of hovers by Jack’s arm for a moment like he wants to touch that, too.

 

Jack had been forced into a deep-V that was oh-so-tight on him. Initially, he’d thought it was too much, but then Shitty reminded him that he’d said he’d dress up for Shits, and Jack had felt obligated to give in. And now, with Bitty seeming to take notice, Jack silently thanks Shitty.

 

“Thanks, Bits, but really, this was all Shitty’s idea,” he deflects the compliment easily onto his best friend, a practiced motion. “Your costume is… really well done. Guess those early morning hours were worth it, eh?”

 

Bitty gives him a look like he can see right through whatever little game Jack is playing. Jack likes that about Bitty, but it also unnerves him. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

 

 _Someone who is trying to ruin my life and my career by showing up here looking unfairly attractive?_   “Um. A girl?”

 

He’s rewarded with an eyeroll and a wave of pie in his face that smells like the worst pie he’s ever known Bitty to bake. “I’m Mrs. Lovett! From Sweeney Todd?”

 

Jack stares back blankly. He’s seen Sweeney Todd, actually, but it’s much more fun to watch Bitty's reactions when Jack says he doesn't know a thing about pop culture.

 

 _“Really?_ Jack, it’s a classic! I’m going to make you watch it with me this weekend, Mister. She bakes people into pies!”

 

In a way, Jack supposes he was right about Bitty trying to kill him. “Sounds perfect for you. At least I know if I can’t play hockey anymore, I have a backup career as a handful of masterfully-crafted pies.”

 

“Not funny,” Bitty pouts.

 

They talk for a minute more before Jack mentions that he was going to dispose of the cat ears, at which point Bitty frowns and looks down at his phone (his eyelashes must have been half an inch long, holy _shit,_ seriously? _How?_ ).

 

“If you’re going to take them off, we need to get a photo together.” The tone in his voice is absolutely final, leaving Jack no room to wiggle out of it. “I need to document the fact that you were at a Halloween party and that you wore a costume.”

 

Jack would never say no to Bitty, not on a night like this. So he smiles for the camera, feeling only a little bit ridiculous next to Bitty’s extreme costume.

 

“Hey, is that going up on Twitter?”

 

Bitty freezes from where he’s typing something away on his phone, and Jack can see on the screen that it is, in fact, Twitter. “Not if you don’t want it to.”

 

Jack shakes his head and sighs a soft laugh, an excuse to look away from those brown eyes. Why did Bitty have to be standing in front of him looking way more attractive than any 45-year-old murderess should?

 

“No, it’s fine. There should be proof that I had a good time at a Halloween party. My dad won’t believe me when I tell him I dressed up as a sex kitten.” _He’ll be so proud,_ is what he doesn’t say, because he’s not even sure if it would be a total joke.

 

Bitty’s eyes widen even further (how big could they _get?_ ) and his mouth drops open slightly, a perfect pink astonished _O_. “Is that what- Now I see Shitty’s influence. Well, you certainly look the part, but if you want to borrow a pair of short shorts, I could make you look like a Playboy Bunny. Or, er, a Playboy… Kitten?”

 

Just like that, there’s an inexplicable tightness in his chest. “Ah, Bits, you know, thanks for the offer, but I really don’t even think I’ll be staying much longer down here.”

 

“Oh, okay.”

 

Jack pretends not to notice the way Bitty’s face falls. “I’ll see you later, okay? Go mingle. I bet Lards loves your look.” Normally, he’d ruffe Bitty’s hair at this point, but seeing as it’s covered by a wig that may or may not be glued on, he decides against it.

 

“She helped me, actually! With the…” he gestures at the overall region of his face. Jack should’ve known he hadn’t done that by himself.

 

“She did a good job,” he says as he takes a step towards the stairs again. “You look less like a middle-aged woman who bakes people into pies for the guy she’s in love with and more like the seduce-and-destroy type of murderess.”

 

And _that_ was not something he planned on saying. Everyone said he had the _Zimmermann charm,_ though he never really thought so himself. He supposes that might be the sort of thing they meant.

 

“Why thank you, Jack Zimmermann.” Bitty looks like he wants to say something else, but Shitty interrupts before he can.

 

“Bitty! Is that you? Holy shit, Bits, you’ve just won yourself the award for best costume. And you know what that means!”

 

Bitty’s swept up by Shitty and Holster, presumably to a keg. Jack takes this as his cue to exit. As he does, he can hear Bitty laughing and protesting with, “Guys, I can’t do a kegstand! I’m wearing a _dress!”_

 

Holster makes a crude joke about Bitty wearing panties, and there’s an exasperated, “ _Yes,_ I am _serious_ about my costumes,” and Jack really needs to be far, far away from that.

 

•••

 

“You know Sweeney Todd.”

 

Jack looks up from the book he’s reading. He’s in his own room, waiting for the party to settle down so he can help clean up, and he’d really meant to only take a short break, but then he kind of got carried away by Ernest Shackleton’s narrative.

 

There’s still eyeliner whiskers on his face, and they don’t seem to want to come off. Lardo must’ve used something waterproof. He’d need real makeup remover, and he isn’t currently in possession of any. He did, however, change out of the skinny jeans (he swears he’s never seen those pants before, and he’s not totally sure how he fit into them) and into a pair of soft grey sweatpants. Bitty’s still in full costume, and Jack is still a little breathless at the sight. The only difference is the lipstick Bitty’s wearing — and he must be wearing something, because it’s blurred around the edges like he’s been kissing someone. Jack shoves that thought out of his head.

 

He feigns innocence. “What?”

 

“Don’t play games with me, Mr. Zimmermann. You know Sweeney Todd. I know you do.”

 

Jack sets his bookmark in place and closes the novel, giving Bitty his full attention. “Oh?”

 

He’s good at responding to things with one word, making sure people know exactly what he means with only a raised eyebrow or a half-smile. He isn’t much of a talker, not like Bitty, but he _is_ good at body language.

 

Bitty’s arms are crossed now, and he looks like he’s trying to be angry but isn’t quite succeeding. “You knew Mrs. Lovett baked people into pies for Sweeney Todd, and that she’s in love with him. I didn’t tell you any of that.”

 

“Oh, right.” Jack should feel like he’s been caught, but instead he’s fighting to keep a smile off his face. “Lucky guess?”

 

“I know better than to fall for that,” he rolls his eyes and leans on the doorway for support, clearly somewhat intoxicated. Jack assumes Bitty was coerced into a kegstand regardless of his protests. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

 

He shrugs. “I haven’t seen it in a while. It’d be nice to watch it again with you.” There’s no way he’s going to let Bitty think too hard about that statement. “How are things down there?”

 

“It’s fading. You were the highlight. People are starting to leave, and now the only ones left are the ones who get really messy. And people _ate_ those meat pies. I don’t want to see them again.”

 

Jack chuckles ― actually chuckles, like he’s in some badly written romance novel. “You’re welcome to hide out up here with me.”

 

Bitty hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. “I would, but I really want to check to make sure no one’s puking in my kitchen. I’ll see you later, though, right? You’re going to help clean up?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Bitty doesn’t close the door behind him when he leaves, and it’s obvious to Jack that he’s a little unsteady on his feet. His instincts tell him to get up and make sure Bitty doesn’t fall and break his neck, but the logical part of his brain tells him that Bitty can take care of himself.

 

If heads down less than ten minutes afterwards, he says it’s just because he wants to enjoy the last bits of the party. Even if he ends up getting tub juice sloshed all over his shirt in a fashion that he’s skeptical to deem accidental. He definitely does not head down after only ten minutes because he can’t focus on his book when his mind’s thinking about Bitty.

 

•••

 

They leave the small parts of clean-up for the morning (like dishes and tearing down streamers), but they take care of the big stuff that night (like disposing of kegs and cleaning up mysterious spills of various liquids). The one time they didn’t, the green couch developed half the stains it has today.

 

It’s not hard work, even if Jack’s the only sober one of the bunch. Shitty still has his wits about him, and Ransom and Holster have a competition to see who can throw out more red solo cups. Things get done, and that’s what matters. Bitty is, predictably, missing. He always is whenever it comes time to clean up. No one really minds, in part because they had their clean-up routine down to a science before Bitty showed up, and in part because no one could be upset with Bitty for long.

 

Jack’s about to head back upstairs when he finds Bitty curled up on the green couch, fast asleep with his mouth slightly open. He must’ve been fairly drunk if he actually fell asleep with his face pressing into the cushions. Ransom looks over from where he’s dropping a cup into a trash bag. “I was just going to let the little guy sleep.”

 

And, really, Jack should do that, but he knows Bitty will hate himself in the morning when he realizes he fell asleep on the couch, and that means an extra-long shower, and _that_ means even more time of hearing Bitty sing loudly when Jack’s trying to do things, like study or talk to NHL representatives.

 

“I’ll get him upstairs,” he says, and he very carefully scoops Bitty up, trying not to jostle and wake him. Really, he’s only picking him up for entirely selfish reasons. Selfish, shower-related reasons. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

 

He's almost to his room when Bitty wakes up. Jack doesn't notice it at first, but he gets the sense that he's being watched, and when he looks down, Bitty's eyes are half-lidded and unfocused but still staring up at him. The mascara (eyeliner?) was smudging below his eyes, and somehow he was still incredibly beautiful.

 

Jack stops his train of thought there. He can't be thinking these things. Not about Bitty, and certainly not now, as he's heading straight to the NHL.

 

"Hey," he offers. He's getting a little uncomfortable with the way Bitty is looking up at him: completely adoringly, like there's no one else in the world he'd rather see. "I saved you from the green couch."

 

Bitty smiles sleepily and curls a hand in the front of Jack's shirt. "My hero."

 

The response in Jack's chest is downright dangerous. He felt like the Grinch at the end of the movie, with a heart growing three times in size. _It's like you were carved out of my dreams,_ is what he thinks. "I need your key," is what he says.

 

The expression on Bitty's face twists into something mischievous. With mild difficulty, he reaches into his dress (his bra? Oh, god, he’s wearing a _bra_. And it’s lacy and black and stuffed. Jack cannot deal with this right now) and pulls out a familiar looking key. It takes him several tries to get that key anywhere near the lock. It’s actually almost pitiful to watch.

 

Jack pushes inside with his shoulder, careful not to knock Bitty against the doorway. It's not a difficult feat, especially when Bitty is so small in his arms ― so much smaller than usual, or so it seems. He sets Bitty on his bed as gently as possible. The scene still doesn't look quite right without a blanket, but Jack doesn't know how to tuck Bitty in without waking him to a point where he won't fall asleep for another several hours.

 

It only takes a moment of contemplation before Jack crosses the hallway and returns with a red fleece blanket emblazoned with a giant white maple leaf in the middle — part of a care package from his parents in case he started liking America a little too much. Bitty’ll know who to return it to in the morning, and at least now Jack feels better about leaving a passed-out drunk boy from the South alone during the beginning of New England’s winter season.

 

“Goodnight, Bitty.”

 

He doesn’t hear a response, but he’s not sure if it’s because Bitty’s already asleep or because he leaves the room as quickly as possible.

 

•••

 

“Aw, Jack, you stretched out my skinny jeans!”

 

Jack spits a mouthful of toothpaste into the sink. “I thought I said you could only pull clothing from what I already own.” He narrows his eyes at the familiar-looking pair of pants Shitty is waving around the room. Nope, he has no idea how he ever fit into those.

 

“What’s mine is yours! _Mi casa, su casa,_ all that.”

 

Jack rolls his eyes and finishes brushing his teeth. He can smell something baking downstairs and hopes for pancakes or waffles or _something_ breakfast related. Holster’s whistling a tune as he walks up the steps. Ransom’s showering in the bathroom above him. There’s an indistinct conversation going on in the kitchen. The sun is shining and the leaves are changing color. It feels as though everything’s finally clicked into place, like this is the way Jack’s life was always meant to be.

  
He wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not even the Stanley Cup.


End file.
